


Money Can't Buy Me Love

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kinky, Modern Era, Mugging, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:01:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25102081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Paul McCartney is the average man in his three man family. He's given up on his career, settled for living off his famous father's money, and his life is seriously boring, with only Martha and a very bossy, very *straight* George to keep him company.It's been years since he's done anything interesting, let alone exciting, or more specifically *sexual*, so it's no wonder he's fighting back moans as his mugger runs his massive manly hands all over his ass pockets looking for his wallet.*"I know this a bad time, but... you've got a hell of an arse, mate"*
Relationships: Cynthia Lennon/John Lennon, George Harrison/Cynthia Lennon, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 26
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

Paul knew he shouldn't have gone out. For FUCK sakes he had just wanted to stay home and read and sleep. 

There he was one moment, telling George he'd be back in a bit, off to get some fresh air after two hours in a stuffy, humid club, and now here he is in this moment, gun to his back, being pushed into an alleyway by someone much broader and rougher. 

"Stay still 'n shut up, aye," the deep nasal voice growled into his ear, stubble and warm moist breath tickling him in ways he WISHED would just calm down for a second. God sakes, this was a mugging, not a bloody shagging. 

He remained silent and still, but in doing so he was unable to inform the crook that his wallet was a) empty of cash and b) in his front pocket, not his bUtT PockEt oh shit. 

In his search for a wallet, the other man's hands had been patting and rubbing up and down his sides and had moved onto his ass now, feeling around... feeling around more than necessary.... oh GOD

Paul hadn't realised just how touch starved he had become after all those months (years) of sitting around at home with only a dog and his very VERY straight roommate for company. 

Each pat and squeeze and grasp was sending hot tingles and shocks from every area of his body touched, all leading promptly to his crotch. At last he broke a little and tried to stifle a whimper as the hands from behind lifted up and under his jacket, grazing his skin briefly. 

The hand stopped and so did Paul's heart basically. 

"Y'know..." the man began again, leaning in as he dragged his hand down slowly and back to the butt pockets of Paul's jeans, "I know this is a bad time, but... you've got a hell of an arse, mate," 

*****

...Two Hours Earlier... 

Having moved out of home to try and make it on his own without relying on his father's money had seemed a noble and doable endeavour at the time, but now it's been three years, and the once 18 year old, bright eyed, budding musician was anything but. 

Times were rough, the music industry was tough, and his father's name and status kept bloody following him around like a permanent fart, wafting about his ass for everyone to smell and judge him by. 

Nobody wanted to hire him because they either thought he was simply riding on the coattails of his famous composer father, or they constantly compared him to his father and were disappointed that he wasn't a clone or somehow magically better despite so many less decades of experience. 

He'd been doomed to live off Dear Old Da's money forever apparently. But hey, at least now he had a much nicer flat and had nothing to worry about... and no sense of fulfilment. 

Maybe he should have moved to London with his brother, after all. That was it... it wasn't HIM, Paul, who was the issue. Must've been Liverpool and it's dreary people and atmosphere that had transformed him into a miserable, boring stick in the mud with no ambition. 

"You're a miserable, boring stick in the mud with no ambition" George announced, as if he'd been thinking this over for some time now and NEVER said so before. 

He was perched on the arm of the sofa, reading a magazine. Eew. (How George managed to keep sneaking those embarrassing things in here, Paul had no clue) 

Looking up from his book, Paul sighed through his nose at his long time (and only remaining) friend. 

"It's terminal, I'm afraid," he responded flatly before returning to his book and turning the page, "Best put in your requests now, so I can divvy up me stuff properly in the will" 

Snorting, George flopped down the magazine onto his crossed leg and stared intently at the (slightly) older young man.  
His dramatic effort in getting his attention failed, so he leaned forward, rolling his eyes and plucked the book swiftly out of his hands, tossing the book away. 

"Hey...?" 

"Nah, son you listen here," George began again, his monobrow raised incredibly high so that his upper eyelids were actually visible for once. He pointed his finger at Paul, jabbing it in the air with each word, 

"You've gotta get a life," 

Offended, but more specifically annoyed, Paul stood up and went to grab his book again, not deigning George with a response other than the dirty look. 

No such luck, as the younger but taller man leapt up and grabbed him by the shoulders. 

"Aw, come off it, George, I'm perfectly fine with my life as it is! I don't see why you're so concerned, it isn't as if I'm stopping you from going out," he tried to shake George off, but those big gangly hands were glued on like rubber cement. 

"Ah, no you're not. In fact, I'm going out tonight..." he dragged Paul off to the other room, "And you are coming with me" 

Managing to stub his toe, elbow himself in his own ribs, and do his best impression of a cross toddler, he was pushed into his room. 

"Now, get yerself all pretty," George commanded, "I'll be back and if you're not dressed, I'll bloody drag you out in yer sweatpants," 

Paul looked down at himself; dressed in mismatched socks, sweatpants so old they had little balls formed in the most worn areas, and he had an oversized sweater on, that had chewed holes in the cuffs and collar. 

"Don't test me. I'll do it," George added as he closed the door slowly, peeking in with his moi-like gaze the whole way. 

Paul huffed his fringe out of his eyes and did his best impression of a slowly deflating balloon as he slid onto the floor.  
He darkly stared at his wardrobe until at last he got up and called out to the wall dividing his and George's room, 

"... Fine, but don't blame me if we get mugged or something stupid," 

However he'd complain at first, he certainly fussed about quite a bit when he did at last put his mind to something, despite being a man who was so stubborn to convince to go out, and cared zero percent about status. 

Dressed up like he was expecting paparazzi or something, hair done, make-up perfect but barely noticeable (enough so that George wonders why he puts any on), and clothes all matched and coordinated within an inch of their lives, he was ready and by the door, phone in hand, arm across his stomach as he leaned against the wall. 

George drawled sarcastically, "You know, you take all the fun out of me forcing you to do things when you go an actually do them without a fight,"  
He had a smirk though, and was clearly in good spirits. 

Paul flipped him off as he 'itched his nose'. "Hmm. Kinky," he smirked himself, causing George to shudder with a comical face of disgust. 

"Alright, Enough of that, mate," he said and grabbed his keys. Without much else, they were off in the cab waiting outside. 

*****

John was not sure what the hell he was doing. Not just in the sense of 'why am I using a sharpie to make my son's toy gun look like a real one so I can go out and mug somebody', but also he was not sure what he was doing in LIFE. 

Since Cynthia got all mixed up in some heavy crap and he'd lost his job, he'd been saddled with a kid, a reputation, and a debt. Oh, wait, make that MANY debts. 

Moving out together to try and make it as a couple was so romantic and exciting at the time, but now that feels not only so far away but also so utterly stupid. If Stuart wasn't at LEAST able to help with most of the bills, and half the rent, John was certain he'd be in a worse state. 

Love... Love for life, for the future... What the hell was love any use for if all those things are totally screwed despite it meaning to prevail above all? 

No, it was money that was the answer. Without it, you're just a pathetic, pitiful person who ends up scrounging for change in parking meters and planning to commit crimes you literally have no idea how to commit properly. 

He's sitting in a shit hole unit that didn't even have a real kitchen, and you had to use a public loo downstairs because they only had room for a shower-bath and sink in the bathroom. 

The place hasn't been cleaned in a week or two, his kid had to borrow books in class from other kids, and the last time John had a haircut was when he had a nervous breakdown and pulled off the Britney Spears look for a few months afterwards... Thank FUCK hair grows back... 

He could probably ask his Aunt for some money, but on top of the fact she already disliked doing favours for him when they WEREN'T financial, he also hadn't written or called in years. 

One by one friends dropped off, or dropped dead. Bit by bit, John lost all of his hope until he'd basically reached a point he would be amazed if anything excited him again. 

Perhaps this desire to rob a person at gunpoint was really just an attempt at livening up his life? Hey, at least he wasn't getting his kicks with drugs. Certainly no room in the budget for THAT, y'know, he does have SOME things straight in his priorities. 

John blew on the ink at the tip of the toy gun to dry it one last time before pocketing it in his hoodie and getting ready to leave the house. 

At least since Stuart was home he wasn't yet stooping down to the level of leaving his kid home alone or anything. 

"You're going to get yourself killed one of these days," Stuart spoke up from the armchair upon which he was curled up, tablet on his lap and cat on his shoulders. 

John's heart nearly stopped working and he spun around to face his (only remaining) friend. 

"Y' what?" he dumbly muttered back, face red and hands hot. 

Stuart shoved his glasses up his nose and made piercing eye contact with him, "You thought I didn't notice what you were doing" 

John glanced back to the table he'd been at and tried to gauge how he'd seen what he was doing from around the corner of a wall dividing the lounge and the kitchenette. 

"Look..." Stuart took his glasses off and closed off his tablet, "I know why you're doing this-" 

"Then shove off," John cut him off abruptly but softly enough not to wake or worry his son in the other room. 

The two men stared at one another in a match of wills. 

"John, hand me the gun," the artist calmly commanded. John stood still and silent a while longer but then pulled it out as asked and tossed it over to him. 

"Yeah, right, right..." he growled, brushing off his jacket and then turning on his heel, "But I'm still gonna go out. I can't sit here all night while you zone out like a zombie. Drive me absolutely mad, you do," 

Since Stuart, unlike John, still actually attended art school and hadn't yet graduated, most days he spent totally absorbed in his work and had become gradually less and less a reassuring presence in John's life. 

"Don't drive, John," he said, before getting back to his tablet. He'd been maybe not the most reassuring but that didn't mean he didn't care. 

John peeked back to make sure Stu was distracted again. Deciding he was, he opened the drawer he kept his wallet in. 

"Yeah, Okay Dad," he said back sarcastically, but with a tint of humour, however exasperated. 

He got his house keys and wallet, and then stepped out into the night. Everything went just as planned. There was a REAL gun in his other pocket. 

*****

"Y'know..." the man began again, leaning in as he dragged his hand down slowly and back to the butt pockets of Paul's jeans, "I know this is a bad time, but... you've got a hell of an arse, mate,"

Unsure of what to do, think, say, feel, ANYTHING, Paul simply blurted out a laugh, letting his forehead fall onto the brick wall in front of him. He was now shaking with laughter more than fear, but that was definitely still there, as demonstrated when the same hand flew up and around his mouth suddenly. 

"Shhhh!" he heard, hissed into his ear, "Bloody get us caught, you git," 

Us? US??? Paul had half a mind to point out that it wasn't HIM who was doing anything wrong, but words left him TOTALLY when he was flipped around to face his assailant 

He had a hood up over his head, but it wasn't covered all the way, and the street light illuminated just enough for Paul to make out an absolutely gorgeous nose, and a strong, manly jaw, covered and framed with a decent stubble and auburn hair. 

He was so busy admiring the mugger's physique that he hadn't realised that the same was being done to him until the one free hand (ie the one that wasn't holding the gun to his chest now) slipped its way into his front pocket, which was bulging with an obvious wallet... and was conveniently placed next to another bulge of another obvious something... 

"You're pretty too," the man spoke and Paul found his eyes transfixed on those lips the moment he uttered a syllable. 

"Uh.. huh..." he meekly muttered, forgetting that he was meant to be making no sound. Not to worry, though as it seemed that the mugger had forgotten he was meant to be robbing and not rUBBinG??? 

Oh dear... he'd grabbed the wallet and then flicked it open to read his ID, and all the while had inserted his thigh between Paul's legs and begun rubbing his throbbing cock through the denim. 

"James? You don't look like a 'James'... McCartney?" he trailed off there, no doubt trying to figure out why he knew that name, Paul assumed. Figures. he almost got out of this one alive. Horny and confused, but alive, but now this fella would recognise him an-

"Never heard a name like THAT before..." he said, not even three seconds after trailing off. 

Paul glanced up where he assumed eyes were, confused. He didn't know him? Well that was uh, convenient. 

Oh no... shouldn't have done that. Shouldn't have looked into his eyes. Now he's looking back. Paul couldn't make them out perfectly, but he could tell that he was being gazed back at intensely. 

There was a spark in that moment, like something very important and far beyond human comprehension was happening in this moment. 

Paul licked his lips, swallowed and took a deep breath in. The mugger exhaled a cloud of beery smelling fog into his face, and his lips twitched up a tiny bit. 

"... Are you a prostitute?" he asked suddenly 

... 

"A whAt?" Pall wheezed, brows drawn together in an instant, face going all the way back to red from being pale again. 

His crotch was attempting to sabotage the look of confusion and offence on his face as it leapt ALL the way up at the thought that this strange, rugged man was under the impression that he, miserable stick in the mud Paul, was something so dirty, so... 

"Oh, I'm only taking the piss," the illegally sexy mugger's mouth split into a smug grin, "Pity though. You'd make a hell of a good one." 

That having been said, the man stepped away from him, releasing all restraint and lowering the gun. 

Paul didn't move but stared at the man. His eyes flicked to the gun, then back again. 

He looked at the gun himself then back to Paul. He tossed the thing aside and it skidded across the damp ground and slid under a large bin. 

Paul followed it for a moment then looked back in mild shock still. 

"Wasn't even loaded... don't actually like those things." he admitted, stepping back and lifting his hands. He lowered the one with his wallet in it, offering it to him. 

He cleared his throat and then straightened up. He stepped forward and reached out to take the wallet back, eyes locked with the other's again. 

Their fingers touched. Paul didn't take his hand away. 

"Paul..." he said. 

The other man took his turn to look confused. 

"Said I don't look like a 'James'... I go by me middle name," he explained. 

He took another step towards him, then another until they were in the complete opposite position to earlier, the crook against the wall, and Paul with his thigh in the middle of HIS legs. 

"And I'm not a prostitute but..." he swallowed thickly and licked his lips again. Was this totally insane? Where had this sudden stupid level of courage come from? (His cock, likely) 

He continued, "I did come out to, uh, have a good time. You?" 

The other man was totally gobsmacked for a moment, lips parted, breathing clearly irregular, face pink, and eyes wide. 

"I... I just tried to MUG you..." he wheezed 

Paul chuckled a little bit, unable to quite believe it himself, "Yeah. I know. But you didn't, so uh... make the most of it, shall we?" he offered again, "Drinks on me. I promise!" he added with a bright, albeit nervous, smile and a wink. 

"Uh..." was all the response he got at first, but the longer they kept up eye contact like that, the more was somehow said. 

"Or I could get us a cab?" Paul quickly amended when the other man's hand came up to firmly rest upon his crotch

"Bugger that, let's just do it here..." he growled back

At that, Paul bucked into his hand, lifted his own to pull down that hood and then he latched his lips onto those before him.

***


	2. Chapter 2

"Bugger that, let's just do it here..." he growled back 

At that, Paul bucked into his hand, lifted his own to pull down that hood and then he latched his lips onto those before him. 

The grip on his crotch tightened a little as the mugger (could he be called that anymore?) began pulling at him through the fabric. He slipped his other hand into Paul's hair and returned the kiss as if his soul was trapped inside of Paul and he was trying to get it back. 

Paul was no better, practically shaking with need, fear, and excitement. Every touch still burned like the first and he was beginning to sweat.

It was so dirty, so risky; out in public at half past 9pm in a dingy alleyway. He could hear cars in the distance, sometimes a light from one would illuminate the alley, their only cover from being spotted being the large dumpster bin beside them. 

Anyone could pop their head out one of the windows above them though, or step onto the fire escape, maybe for a fag, and then upon looking down they'd cop a sight of *two* of em, tearing at one another as if the other had wronged him. 

Paul growled and pulled away, taking the stranger's lip in his teeth for a bit, then pushed him into the wall by the chest with both hands, eliciting a deep groan. He bored into the other's eyes which were frenzied, clearly barely able to contain himself as he awaited Paul's next move. 

Holy FUCK this man was beautiful. Not beautiful like Paul was, or maybe George after a few beers, but really *handsome*, raw and rough sHiT... he was too horny to properly admire it. Focus!! Focus!! 

The quick three second face scan was strong enough to make Paul nearly cream his pants, but getting a hold of himself, he spoke again

"Stay," he breathed, then without breaking eye contact he slid down to his knees, ignoring the slightly damp pavement beneath them. He unbuttoned the front of the grotty grey jeans, and ripped them down. 

From John's perspective this was all just so fucking surreal. He had to wonder if maybe he hadn't accidentally fallen asleep at the bar and this was all just a beery, sexy dream. 

One moment he's stuck a gun to a guy's chest, the next he's having his thighs ravished and bitten by the exact same guy. Did this Paul guy have a death wish? John could have been ANYONE. Could be a bleedin' lunatic, or a crackhead for all he knew. 

Either way, the lad was clearly in charge. He may be the one currently on his knees but he was forceful, not just in his actions but the sheer aura he exuded was one of control. Such a pretty face to accompany such power was like a hit for John, and he forgot himself as he succumbed to the high. 

"Oh please..." he whispered, "Please, Paul, please" 

Upon hearing his own name in that voice, he bit down hard into the thigh he'd been leaving another hickey on. John stifled a scream, coming out as if he was being strangled, and then he lowly moaned as Paul tore down his briefs. 

Another car light passed by and John winced as the light blinded him. He looked back down again and had to grab the bin to stop himself from falling down, his knees no sturdier than a puppet's. The sight and sensation of those plush lips on his cock was so intense that this was DEFINITELY not a dream. 

The taste and smell of a man was one of Paul's favourite things, and he nearly cried, eyes watering in the corners both from the light gag of having something so deep in his mouth and also from the sheer emotional overwhelming. 

He grabbed his legs when he noted he was getting weak in the knees, helping to hold him up a bit better, and then he began to move. He was unable to hold back his own little moans as each bob of the head drew out progressively more helpless sounds from the other. 

"Yes... oh..." he whined, and then quickly shut up, halting his breath as a gaggle of girls walked past the alleyway on the street, laughing and talking as they passed. John warily eyed them, hoping with all his might that they'd get a move on. 

Paul didn't stop however. He either didn't hear or didn't care, (normally he would, but Paul wasn't home right now, Cock was and it was having over a guest in his mouth) 

The girls all passed finally, but John had held his breath long enough that he was light in the head and there were stars in his eyes as he glanced back down, totally in awe of the man beneath him, seemingly unphased. 

It sent him over and he cried weakly in the back of his throat as he exhaled and ejaculated at the same time. Paul hummed with appreciation and surprise as he swallowed down all he could, lingering on John's cock a while longer until it began to soften. 

He pulled back, grinning impossibly wide, staring up at his assailant-turned-sex partner. 

"Yeah?" he croaked, a little dazed himself and totally unable to make a sentence. The blood that would normally power his talking-mechanism was currently occupied with having a rave in his underpants, his poor erection was throbbing that much. 

John blinked and then answered nonchalantly, "Yeah..." 

They then held eye contact for a few seconds before busting up, John doubling over and Paul giggling into his hands. 

John recovered and then put out his hands to help Paul up. He lifted him and then pulled him into another kiss, sighing. 

He knew he couldn't just let Paul spoil him up with such a performance as that without anything in return though. He slid his hands down to his hips from his back, then began to undo the front of those nice, new feeling jeans. 

Paul leaned back so John could reach, and then moaned into his mouth as his cold hand slipped without hesitation into his briefs. His cock quickly warmed up the long, calloused fingers though as they gripped him and began to pull. 

"You sure you're not a prostitute?" John teased, having his voice back at last, "I'd be in serious trouble if you were, after a show like that," 

Paul giggled, "I'm not... but for you, I could be anything,"   
He gazed into his eyes, smiling still and red and sloppy. His cock was leaking profusely with precum, slicking John's hand and making the pulls easier, faster, *hotter*. 

"Oh?" John leaned in, rubbing his thumb over the slit at the head over and over, "Could you be?" 

Paul, now taking his own turn to be the submissive one, whimpered and nodded, scrunching up his face cutely and grasping the material of John's hoodie 

"Could you be a good boy for me?" he asked, scraping the side of his stubbly cheek against Paul's smooth one, "Could you be my little slut?" 

Paul's cock was stinging with pleasure and he was getting close, so close, so HOT and wet and god it HURT to be this close! 

A few more people walked past the alleyway, Paul noted them but rather than panic, his cock immediately emptied itself and he silently screamed

"Yesssssss..."

His head fell on John's shoulder and he began to softly weep, gripping him around the waist and squeezing.

John was still staring at the spot Paul was just seconds ago, the look on his face in the mild illumination of the street light was practically burned into his mind now. 

"Wow..." 

Were it not for the sniffles in his ear he'd have stayed in a daze, but he turned to see Paul again. He was heaving a tiny bit, and there was... was that *eye-liner*? Huh... he didn't realise the make-up until now. 

"Hey... you, uh, alright?" he hugged him back, pulling him flush, ignoring his freezing thighs. 

Paul groaned and then with a deep sigh, he turned away from John. 

"I'm... I'm fine yeah..."

John couldn't help it. He was a mess, and a loser, but he couldn't help but care about people. He couldn't help but feel for this strange, sexy man who'd with one bold decision gone and filled John's entire body with life again after so long. 

"You don't need to be fine," he said softly, "but I truly hope you will be," 

Paul stopped, his heart and stomach fluttering. He sucked in a slow breath and exhaled again. Wow, he thought. Last person who'd really said anything like that was either related to him, or was being paid (read: his mum or a therapist) 

"I... I know. I really am, though," he promised and gathered up the nerve to look at him again. 

"I think it's just been so long that I'm a bit-" 

"Overwhelmed?" John guessed. Paul smiled and nodded, embarrassed. 

"Yeah,"

"Me too," John smiled, and hugged him again. He wasn't weeping but he was certainly like jelly. If Paul wasn't holding him upright and clearly in need of his clarity right now, he'd have probably passed out like a hobo, himself. 

They stayed there for a while longer, just hugging and breathing, willing themselves back to a calm state.   
...   
... 

"Oy, ah, Paul?" 

"Mm?" 

"Can I pull me pants back up?" 

"Oh SHIT! Sorry..."

John laughed as Paul pulled them up for him, even buttoning them, then doing his own. Then, they shared another look. 

Then, smiling, they shared another kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

George was seriously worried or rather; annoyed and not really surprised, now. It's been nearly twenty minutes since Paul left to get some 'fresh air'. Fresh air his ARSE, that sad slack off probably grabbed a cab home. 

He checked his phone from any missed messages... Still nothing since the last, but he DID have a new message from his *friend*... Okay, MAYBE after six months of constant DMs (and regular texting, and calls, and video calls, and-) ANYWAY, it was probably fair to say this lass he'd met on Instagram was probably his girlfriend now. 

They just... hadn't met in person or made it official or anything yet. Anyway, he'd been keeping her updated on his mission to Get Paul A Life so far. 

\---  
☀️Sunshine Girl☀️: You're fighting the good fight, love, don't give up! Tell me how your night goes - ❤️  
\---

He smiled crookedly, his insides flopping about. God, what an overreaction, all she did was text him one singular heart and a message. He schooled himself and sat up straighter, trying to determine if he should text back or not, Paul and his absence completely forgotten. 

... Well, just one text can't hur- NO!!! He can't look desperate.  
... But don't girls actually hate it when you're distant?? Yeah, just text back but make it sound casual. Normal...  
Oh, but not TOO casual or she'll think he didn't appreciate her...  
WAIT hold on what the hell? It's just a text about PAUL not about HIM, anyway-

"George??? Hello?" a hand waved over his face, startling him and making him nearly fall backwards out of his seat. 

Someone else caught him, but it was Paul with whom George made eye contact when he spun his head around in confusion and defence. Not that Paul knew he had been intruding on his bloody teenage schoolgirl diary thoughts. 

"Paul? The hell've you been, ye glittery bastard," he scowled, "Me arse was getting *uncomfortably numb*," 

The man who'd caught and eased him back up snorted. George turned his head and was met with some grotty looking guy with an even grottier Pink Floyd shirt on. 

"Oh... Ha, nice taste, mate," he mumbled at the guy, understanding the snort. 

"Oh, I'LL say he's got nice taste," Paul smirked, sharing a *look* with the guy. 

George felt a cold shiver, his eyes flying between the two men now. What? Paul was totally cool facially except for his eyes, which read *S E X*. The other guy was also way too cool but had an eyebrow raised. 

"No, it's Paul here I reckon's got questionable taste," he answered with mock disgust. 

George shuddered with REAL disgust, "Oh for Pete's sake, PAUL?!" he stood up brushing himself off and feeling his dick shrivel at the thought of what the hell they'd probably just done. 

Paul had no sympathy whatsoever, "Well, George. Still wanna know where I've been?" he teased, immediately glancing back to the other guy who'd taken George's seat now. It was like he was being teased AND ignored all at once. 

Of course from their perspective, Paul and John had no idea they were totally lost in one another like that. Paul had convinced John to come back because he'd left his phone with George when he'd gone out, and he'd probably have worried him if he didn't hear from him after a while. 

"This is John," Paul finally blessed George with his attention (properly). John, slid an elbow onto the counter, and turned too. Hmm. Something familiar about his face, he reckoned. Not ringing off alarm bells though, so he stayed cool. 

"So, you must be George," he said, receiving a head nod. George felt that he was a little familiar too now, and the name as well, but he couldn't place it either. 

John was amused a bit at how damn *angry* the man looked, despite clearly being younger than Paul. He was like a grumpy dog at the gate. 

"I promise I've the best intentions with your son," he said with mock seriousness.

George stopped glaring for a moment and then cracked a smile, "Oh, come off it, mate," 

He pushed him in the shoulder and then sat down too. The guy seemed alright, despite his shocking appearance. Paul didn't exactly go for grubby, but maybe this was one of those *great personality* cases. Or maybe George was just not gay and thus couldn't see some magical appeal. 

A few more rounds of drinks, on Paul of course, a bit was discovered. They all had lived here their whole lives. John was a bit older than them both, but they still found loads to talk about, looking back. They all had seen the same movies and were watching similar shows. All three were music fans, with similar tastes too. However, as it came around to movies and music, naturally it also came around to Paul's dad. 

"Ah, me da worked on that one," Paul interjected like second nature as John brought up some action film, a war movie or something like that. 

"Worked on it?" John bunched his brows and blinked, confused. He couldn't possibly mean? Paul cursed himself and felt a shiver. Well... he can't bloody take it back now can he? He glanced at George who smiled at him, probably for courage or something. 

"Yeah. I had that crap stuck in me head for weeks. He'd bring work home sometimes... not the worst work to bring home, 'course, but y'know," he shrugged, totally nonchalantly. John had the thousand yard stare now. George could see the poor man struggling, 

"Paul's da's the composer," he said, leaning in and snatching an opportunity to get a word in while he could. He'd found being a conversational vulture worked and since then it'd been a bit more bearable trying to talk to them both. John whipped around to look at George. SURELY the two weren't both pranking him...

He continued, "Used to work on films albums back in the 80s 'n 90s, but quit when Paul was born, then went back." 

Paul snorted, "Yeah, 'quit' is a strong word. More like he began working from home," he smirked, nostalgic although still on edge. 

"Okay, okay, hold up," John stopped them, worried maybe he was drunk or something, peering suspiciously at his beer, "Your *father*," he said, pointing to Paul, "Your uh, actual... real life dad... he's-" 

Paul's entire demeanour began to close up. It HAD been for a while now, his face falling, his eyes trained on the droplets of condensation on the counter, fingers drawing squiggles in them. 

God there it was. Here's the part where John, whose name he'd literally only learned at the door of the club, was gonna stop seeing him as Paul and start seeing him as a celebrity's son. Whatever they had was probably totally gone now. Maybe he'd mug him for real now since he's gonna put two and two together how rich he was. Can't have shit in Liverpool. 

John sensed that he was treading down a bad path. He pulled himself together and took a huge swig from his beer, suddenly VERY sober. 

"MAN that's gotta suck. God I can't imagine being dragged into all that fame shite." he said. It WAS true. He did think that about all forms of fame, really, having a pretty infamous reputation himself. He decided to let empathy take the wheel instead of the gremlin like fanboy in his chest. 

He glanced at George who nodded discreetly but with a sternness to his eyes.  
*'Don't do that again'* it read. 

Note taken, John looked back to Paul. God he seemed so dull, the glitter he could now see on his eyelids was the only bright thing there. 

"You play guitar?" he asked, too stubborn to let the conversation die, and too proud to apologise. Maybe if he pretended it didn't happen, it'd go away. 

Paul seemed to really like that idea, perking up a little bit, "I do, but George is better," he said, earning a cocky noise of affirmation from said George. 

"Nice. Me too... I've been dying to find someone to play with for a while now... Maybe we could?" he asked, taking another swig of his bottle. 

Paul's mind went back to the alleyway. Oh he'd like to *play with him* alright. He blushed and swallowed those words down with his own beer. 

"Uh, yeah. Sure, why not?" he agreed. 

After that swift save, the three fell back into conversation, carefully but not too obviously keeping away from Jim. They eventually had to leave, the place emptying out enough that they had to whisper to keep their conversation private now. 

"Hey John. You got a ride home?" Paul asked, whipping out his phone call for a cab. 

John winced. Better not bring Paul around his general area. Not a good place for him (or anyone really) to be seen. He grabbed the phone from Paul

"Yes, but I've also got a number," he said, punching his own number in, as Paul had the dial screen open. He called his own phone on it, hung up and added himself as a contact, all the while Paul was grinning bashfully. 

He took back his phone and had a look at his new contact. He giggled; there was his name, John, but then he'd used the knife emoji a few times after it. Not the right weapon since there was no gun emoji, but it was clear what he meant. 

"Well... That's good to know then," he said, and then leaned forward. John did too. George, predicting something he didn't wanna see, scurried along out to the curb, eyes down. 

Paul smiled as he pulled away from the kiss, giving John a once over again. "I'm glad we met, John," he said. He wished, deep inside, that it hadn't been the way they HAD met. He must have been in quite a situation if he had needed to mug someone, and Paul's rich-guilt was threatening to spill out and make it like he thought he was a charity case. After all, he didn't. He really liked him too, and wanted him to know that he didn't care where or what he came from. 

John raised his brow again. Classy bloke, this Paul, wasn't he? Paid for the meal and drinks, offers a ride, gives a kiss and heart stopping comment like THAT at the end of the date. So what if half the date was literally public sex? God he didn't deserve him. 

"I'm glad I met you too," he said. He followed Paul with his eyes as he left to actually call a cab. It showed up not too long after and they shared one last look before the door closed and the cab drove off. 

John felt disgusting, but alongside that he felt excited. Was it such a bad thing HOW they got where they did, if it meant they had gotten where they DID? He didn't know. He shrugged and stuffed his hand into his pocket to check his messages. 

\---  
Paul: ❤️💋❤️💋❤️  
\---

You know what? He didn't bloody care how. It felt GOOD. 

*****


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I agonised over the timeline for like two days, oops. Basically everything takes place in 2019 because 2020 sucks, and I had to work out ages. I fumbled a bit with some ages to make it easier on myself, and so Cynthia's John's age (23 turning 24)

The next morning, John was fused with his bed. Nope, not getting up, not even PHYSICALLY possible. Nothing... Not ANYTHING was gonna make him leave the sweet warmth of his-

"Daddy!" 

AaAaaAahhhh... 

"Mmm?" he grunted from beneath the covers. 

"Mummy's here," Julian announced from the doorway, dressed already and just enough food caked to the sides of his mouth to indicate he'd eaten by now. 

"Ah, fish on a stick..." John bolted upright and everything cracked from his hips upwards. He couldn't open his eyes all the way but as they slowly came into focus, another person came into view. 

"John," was all Cynthia said in greeting. She wasn't impolite or haughty about it, not even cold but just _resigned_ sounding. She'd been resigned for years now; about John, about work, about life. 

Getting out of his bed, thankfully still dressed from last night, John smiled half heartedly at her and she smiled back, ushering Julian back into the hallway. 

"Go on and pack your bag, baby," she said softly, and then once Julian was off to do so, it left the two parents alone. 

"Stuart let you in?" John asked, scratching at his chin as he fought off a yawn. 

"Just as he was leaving for work, yes," she replied, "He said you'd been out late," 

John glanced at her, made eye contact... that wasn't a statement, it was a prompt. God she had some fucking nerve acting all disappointed like that. What? What did she reckon he'd been out living la vida-bloody-loca all week? Insinuating he's a shit parent? Basically proving once again that no one thinks anything of him, nor has any expectations that he'd MAYBE have changed. 

"I was on a date, in fact," he said back, not SHOWING how pissed he'd become, at least not verbally, but surely the look in his eyes gave away his indignation. 

Cynthia, expecting the look but not expecting the words, had to stop for a moment to replay that in her head. 

"A _date_?" she asked, the neutral (bordering on condescending) tone she previously bore was replaced with one of infuriating incredulity. 

John pushed past her into the hall, "Yep," he pressed his lips together into a thin line, and then walked off to help Julian with his bags. 

"John, wait" Cynthia began, following him close behind. 

John whipped around with a tight smile, "Yes?" he asked as calmly as he could, but his insides felt like a popcorn bag going off, slowly building up and getting hotter. 

"You've been seeing someone?" she tried again, trying to sound less incredulous this time and more curious. After all, Julian was HER son too, and GOD (should there somehow be one after all this crap) knew that John had lacklustre taste in _dates_. 

"I'm sorry to break this to you, Cyn, but it's not cheating when you've already broken up," he said, simmering, eased only a little by his own humour. They shared a glare, both knowing exactly what the other was getting at, the sound of Julian merrily singing 'wheels on the bus' to himself being a rather interesting accompaniment to the scene. John broke eye contact first, beginning to get anxiety from Julian's incessant singing.

"Hello, young master, how goes your packing?" he asked his son, using a pretend posh voice. 

Julian was sitting on the floor with some toys and shot up to stand when John walked in. 

He previously had been shoving fistfuls of both clean AND dirty clothes into his over full bag. It was likely over full from having at least ten toys stuck under it all, hogging all the space. 

"I didn't do it! It's stuck," he said, pointing at the bag as if blaming a sibling for something bad, "I TRIED to pack!" 

John released a sigh through his nose, "Well, let's have a look at it then," 

Cynthia stood patiently in the doorway. John had been able to use their son as a conversational cock-block for NOW but he was going to have to speak to her about this sooner or later. She decided to drop it for the time being. The sooner she got out of this _neighbourhood_ the better. 

Julian all packed, and further conversation completely sidestepped, she was soon on her way with her son and a bad feeling in her gut. 

***

George had totally spaced on texting Cynthia back. He was so bewildered by Paul's spontaneous, albeit grubby, date that he'd not thought about updating her.   
He whipped out his phone as he waited for Paul to finish frying up their eggs and fake-on (some fake meat bacon thing they'd discovered and become addicted to)

He pondered if she'd be back from picking up her son yet. He'd been shocked but not totally put off the fact she had a son. It wasn't like he disliked kids, she was just so young, although older than he was admittedly. She seemed to be a good mother though, and damn if that kid wasn't the cutest little mini-man he'd ever seen. 

He'd gotten the abridged version of her situation; moved out at 19, kid by 20, and then her ex-boyfriend got busted cheating and using drugs, and she was promptly divorced by 23, last year. Quite a lot to go through in so few years, but she came out of it all shining brilliantly like the sun. 

Oh for fucks sake, he's making mental poetry now? Come on, George, ye soft bastard, just cool it for a sec. Anyway... He knew she had Julian this week, and thus he didn't want to text her while she's in the middle of something, or if her scummy ex was there. 

Paul slipped a plate before him, breaking his train of thought before he could fall down another rabbit hole of 'should I / shouldn't I text'. 

"Ah! Ta," he gave a quick halfway smile before popping his phone back and grabbing the cutlery. 

Paul had been on cloud nine for about three minutes after waking up before he was hit with a bought of horrible, paralysing anxiety... Particularly when he remembers drunkenly sending that sappy emoji text. Never mind the totally insane PuBLic SeX oops... What the HELL had gotten into him? 

They could've been caught, someone could have taken pictures... got arrested, oh FUCK what would his father think, oh shit Oh shit oh SHIT... 

George was staring at him. Yeah as if HE hadn't ANYTHING to do with it. He should never have gone out with George last night.... 

Paul sat down and began to attempt to eat. Trying to ease up his nerves was harder than expected and had taken away his ability to taste, so it wasn't working out too well. After more silence, Paul tried to make conversation. 

"So, got anything on for the weekend?" he asked 

"Nuh, habuh yu?" George managed to at least HALF talk with his mouth full. 

Paul grinned (it was forced) "I don't know!" he said. For once he ACTUALLY didn't have anything planned. Something totally spontaneous might actually happen to him! OH THE HORROR!!

As annoying as he could be, George had to feel for the guy. It was clear he war regretting last night, but the last thing he wanted was for Paul to become even more of a recluse, even if that meant having to play the match-maker. 

"You got John's number last night, yeah?" he asked, "He seemed alright to me. How did you meet?" 

Paul felt his stomach flip. Oh no, he wants to know how they MET god... 

Sure, let's tell him THAT; 

_"Oh, y'know, John just felt like pokin' someone with an empty gun and I happened to be the lucky guy. And then we immediately had sex in the alley..."_

Uh, nah. Not happening. He'd have to think of some fake but realistic story and pass John the details to follow along with. 

"Hmmm..." he stared at his eggs, face red, head a mile away. 

George winced mentally. Okay, get a grip, it's for the greater good. Thoughts of god knows what flew through his mind as Paul took his time to answer, and George had to remind himself that this was PAUL. it was probably some sloppy make out session in the men's room or something. Bad pick up lines. Tame. Paul was rather tame. 

He decided Paul needed help (as if he himself was sooo good with relationship stuff)

"Never mind, not important, he was good for a laugh. Great music taste he's got, too. Maybe you should have him over for that jam session this weekend," he said, casually, trying to ease him into it. 

Maybe instead of pushing him to go OUT, he should start by letting people IN. 

Paul glanced up,"Huh? OH! Yeah, I should ask him about that," he said, not totally convinced, but grabbing for his phone. He nearly cried at the sappy text he sent, staring at him from the screen. 

George's heart skipped a beat, "Whoa i didn't mean right NOW... don't you gotta... err, wait for him to text first or whatever?"   
He really liked John and didn't want Paul screwing it up with anxiety-wall-of-texts. 

Paul snorted, temporarily fine again just enough to act a little superior.   
"George, real people don't do that silly magazine advice crap. He'll see it when he sees it and he'll answer when he wants to," he said with fully hypocritical confidence. 

George, now that the topic had turned to texting, remembered Cynthia. Well... If Paul SAYS so. 

\---  
 **George:** Hey, sorry I didn't text last night. Paul got an actual date. 

**☀️Sunshine Girl☀️:** OMG, did he really?" 

**George:** Yeah. He's a pretty cool guy. Sorta spontaneous tho. 

**☀️Sunshine Girl☀️:** Is he gonna see him again?   
\---

George looked up to Paul, lazily pushing at his eggs again as he stared at his own phone, awaiting a response. 

\---  
 **George:** I bloody hope so. Single Paul sucks, but Stood-up Paul sounds worse 😂

**☀️Sunshine Girl☀️:** Well, here's to hoping then!! Anyway, gotta go. Driving with Julian, ❤️

**George:** Oh, I see how it is, I'm just the side-bitch 😂

**☀️Sunshine Girl☀️:** You bet 😘. Now shush! Julian says hi! I'll ttyl ❤️  
\---

***

\---  
 **Paul:** Hey! How'd you sleep?   
\---  
John had been wide awake since Cynthia left, sat on the couch, slowly forgetting his food in favour of a mobile phone game when a message note popped up. 

He was startled for a moment, but the name was unmistakable. There WAS no other Paul he knew. He was frozen to the spot for a while. He'd normally just reply immediately, but what if Paul was one of them classy guys who liked you to be cool about it? 

Then again... 

He had a look at the previous message, the first one Paul ever sent. He smirked at how bloody cheesy it was, just a string of hearts and kisses. It totally contradicted the tone of their actual night... 

John darkened for a moment. It contradicted everything in his life. Cynthia had gone and assumed Paul was some crack whore, or a dealer no doubt. He knew she had no possible way of knowing that Paul was nothing of the sort, but regardless, John's senses had been taken over with a primal urge to protect this man's honour. 

But why? They had a shag in the alley by the cheapest pub in town, behind a bin. What honour??? 

*buzzzz*  
*buzzzz*  
*buzzzz*  
\---  
 **Paul:** Uh, sorry if I seemed a little eager... You don't need to respond, right away. 

**Paul:** I was just thinking, y'know. Music always in me head, so I was reminded of you

**Paul:** I mean, not in a weird way, just coincidence. Really, it was George who reminded me of you  
\---

John snorted and rolled his eyes. Maybe he had no honour to speak of, but he clearly was just as anxious about texting and hooking up as he was. It was kinda nice to be fussed and worried over like this, too. It'd been a while. He didn't think he was the type to invoke a sense of insecurity in guys like Paul, or at least not in a positive way. 

He decided he'd put him out of his suffering:

\---  
 **John:** Hey, who needs an alarm clock when they've got you? 

**Paul:** Oh, sorry... 

**John:** Aw, I'm only kidding, luv. I'm fine, don't worry your pretty head off. I'm just slow in the morning. Now what's this about music in your head?  
\---

John smiled as he and Paul ended up texting for nearly a half hour. He set down the phone and closed his eyes, scratching his chin. Maybe he'd actually shave for once? Might as well be prepared. Something gave him the feeling he'd be seeing Paul again *soon* (probably the buzz of his phone with yet another reply) 

Yep. This still felt too good to be true, but fuck anyone who'd try and stop him. 

***


	5. Chapter 5

The wait from Sunday to the following Saturday was unbearable, but not for any bad reason. They, Paul and John, hadn't stopped texting. It was as if they'd been in the same room all week, and since neither had any job so to speak of, nothing much stood in their way. 

They'd talked about plenty of things, but managed to talk very little about  _ themselves _ . Well, in the deeply personal sense anyway. John was not ready to talk about his crap with Paul or  _ anyone  _ for that matter, and Paul was just used to being tight lipped in general (came in handy when it came down to Paul VS the press, too).

Regardless, they'd still talked about enough to know they were definitely compatible. There was a  _ something  _ that they had going on and it was  _ good _

Funny to think a week ago, Paul had been confused by and a little jealous of George and his new girlfriend (were they dating? He didn't know and George didn't like talking about it) 

_ "I told you getting an instagram was a good idea," _ he'd say cockily whenever he'd catch him at the tail end of another hour long voice call. 

Now it was his turn to be up late, 4am, sheets pulled over his head as he stared at the phone. He'd exit the messaging application, scroll around his phone looking for things to do, just to immediately open it up again and refresh. Music softly playing in his earphones, screen light on the lowest setting, condensation of his breath making little rainbows of pixels visible on the screen... something very childish about it, but nice. 

*buzzzz*

He started a bit, wiped his phone of the condensation, then went to check his new message,

\---

**John🔪🔪🔪:** can't find it. At this rate, may as well nick a toy guitar. 

**John🔪🔪🔪:** be better'n nothin, eh

\---

Paul snorted, scrunching up his face. Toy guitar? What did he mean by  _ that?  _

He was about to text and ask about it, but the condensation on his phone caused the screen to not cooperate with his hands, and he'd accidentally called him. 

"Oh! Shit!" he hung up quickly as he could, fumbling around and lifting his head out of the covers, sitting up. 

He sighed, wiped his phone again and went to text to apologise, and then suddenly 

\---

**_Incoming call from John🔪🔪🔪_ **

\---

Frozen, he stared at it for a few rings. Oh god now he'd done it. Now he'd have to answer. Wait, why was  _ he _ the one at fault? Why did John call  _ back?  _

OKAY, okay. Calm down and  _ answer.  _

"Uh... H-hi..." Paul muttered sheepishly into the receiver. 

John, over on the other side of the city smirked, sitting up in bed. He'd taken a chance calling him back and had almost hung up himself, but  _ god _ it was good to hear that voice. 

"Hullo," he replied, his voice huskier than it needed to be. 

Paul pulled his phone away from his face, inhaling sharply. Getting a grip he returned, 

"Uh, didn't mean to call but uh, the screen was bein stupid" he shakily laughed 

_ "Damn. Thought you just wanted to hear me,"  _ John laughed back,  _ "At least that's why I called back anyway,"  _

Biting his lip, a tightness forming between his legs, Paul pondered the situation. Where was it going? How far was it allowed to go? He'd been terrified of the unknown earlier but god damn if he wasn't too horny to care when it came down to it. 

"Well, I mean that's certainly the reason I answered," he smiled, "awful late for a chat though, innit?" 

John stretched his legs out from under him, then scooted into a more horizontal position. Just in case something happened. (Lies. He knew exactly what was about to happen) 

_ "Well, I only said I wanted to hear your voice. Didn't specify how, did I?"  _ he said, and the soft moan on the other side made him run hot all over. Thank fuck no one else was home tonight. He popped Paul on speaker phone and placed it next to him on the pillow. He wanted to feel like he was in the room, loud as if he was there on top of him. 

"O-oh... well then, suppose you oughta specify then," Paul grinned, a hand slipping into his briefs, quiet as anything. Couldn't have George hearing him, could he? He had the earphones in still though so it'd be like John was there if he closed his eyes. The thought alone was helping him along; he felt himself grow a little harder without having heard  _ anything  _ yet.

_ "Hmm, not if you don't ask with the right words,"  _ John breathed. 

"What're they?" 

_ "You're creative. Have a guess,"  _

"... Daddy?" 

John recoiled, "Ah! No, not that one m'afraid," he said quickly, trying to get the sound of the word out of his head. In another lifetime however? Absolutely, but his kid's room was next door, albeit empty right now. He hadn't told Paul about Julian yet so he couldn't blame him for not knowing. 

Sort of relieved, not exactly keen on that kink himself given his own father issues, Paul thought about it more. He ran things by in his head, waiting for a thought to resonate with his cock, thus providing the answer. 

"What can I do for you?" he asked instead. He'd said to John before that he could be or do anything he wanted him to, so may as well pick up where that promise left off.

John, back up again, smirked;

_ " _ **_Loud._ ** _ I want you to be loud as you can be,"  _

Paul's breath hitched and he glanced at the wall. His room wasn't  _ exactly  _ close to George's but he was only across the hall. It was a wide hall though, and carpeted too. Maybe he could risk it?

_ "What's the matter, luv? 'fraid of makin a bit o' noise?"  _ John teased. 

Paul blushed and pursed his lips, "No I'm  _ not, _ " 

_ "Go on then... touch yourself,"  _

He grasped his cock properly, having previously been running his fingertips over it. He made something between a sigh and a moan, and closed his eyes. 

_ "That's it. Good boy,"  _ John praised, deciding to draw things out for himself, slowly stroking as he waited for Paul to get more heated. 

"Oh, John..." he uttered into the phone, leaning back on the head of the bed,

"Oh you feel so good," 

John chuckled,  _ "Picturing me are you? Good. Me too... love the way your sweet heavy cock feels in me hand,"  _

Paul could almost remember the way the callouses on John's fingers left burning trails as they ran up and down the shaft,

"Your hands," he moaned, not too loud still, cautious. In control for now

"Your hands are so big...so rough," 

John knew he'd have to coax him a bit more if he wanted to turn up the volume. He liked a challenge though, and it would be so worth it, he just knew it. 

_ "I can be rougher,"  _ he said,  _ "I can grip you hard. Make you whine, and ache,"  _

Paul bucked up, cursing into the phone as he did as instructed, going harder than before, 

"Yes  _ please, _ " 

John's belly swooped with lust, his cock was engorged now, but he continued to tease himself, not satisfied with Paul's performance yet

_ "You like my hands, don't you, slut?" _ he hissed,  _ "Want me to rub them all over you... Bet you'd be dripping all over me fingers," _

"OH!  _ Yes  _ I  _ do..  _ I  _ am _ " Paul's voice cracked a little, getting louder as his arousal began to take over his rationality. 

_ "You're  _ **_what_ ** _?"  _ John demanded, sharply,  _ "tell me, slut, what are you doing?"  _

Paul grasped the phone because he had nothing else to grab. God he wasn't used to being talked so  _ dirty  _ to. A part of him was embarrassed but another part was just so deeply horny because of it. Combined, it was making him much more sensitive and he whined loud and whore like before continuing, 

"I'm dripping all over your fingers," he answered, "my cock is achin and it's leakin all over you," 

John growled and began to tighten his grip on his own cock, 

_ "That's a good boy... Such a pretty little slut. Love your pretty voice... I wanna hear you sing for me, baby,"  _

Paul's 'pretty voice' took on a desperate, more frantic tone as he came further undone, ragged breaths between moans, getting louder and higher. 

John was unable to stop himself from reciprocating, totally unrestrained. The progression of their voices urged each other on, and it was Paul first that felt like it was coming close to time, 

"John..." he whined, "Please... I'm gonna..."

_ "Do it,"  _ John commanded,  _ "Cum for me... Cum all over me, scream for me. I wanna hear you scream my name,"  _

Paul arched his back, legs shaking, hand slippery as he brought himself over,

"Oh- _ Oh Joooohn!!!" _ he cried out, followed by a few more high pitched moans as he was hit with multiple waves, some of the cum shooting up to hit his chin. 

John raced to catch up to him, the image of Paul's face from the first time was bright and clear behind his closed eyes, accompanying the gorgeous voice surrounding him. He came  _ hard _ , sweat beginning to run down his chest and back, head light as he emptied onto his sheets, still pulled up over his hips. 

They both took a moment to catch their breath, and in that space of silence, John heard a little beeping noise... It had been going on for a bit before finally John spoke

_ "what's... What's that?" _ he managed to get out, confused. 

***

On Paul's end, as he was gulping for air, he paused to listen and sure enough there was a beeping sound... Another call on the line? 

He looked down at the phone screen... 6 missed messages and... 

\---

**_Incoming call from Geo_ **

\---

"Oh...  _ Fuck.  _ I uh... I gotta... take another call" Paul sheepishly muttered, and the tone alone gave away a bit of a hint as to  _ who _ was calling. 

John smirked, amused by his suffering,  _ "Good luck with that, baby," _ he teased 

"Oh..." Paul flustered, "Fuck off..."

***

George had been trying to enjoy a nice last few hours of rest. He was a morning person, sure, but that was so long as it was past 6am and not at nearly half past 4, to the sound of his best friend calling like a cat in heat across the hall. 

He'd texted him at first, but after six damn texts it only seemed to get louder. Maybe the bastard had his phone on silent and wasn't hearing the texts... oh well, he'd be done soon enough. Maybe he'd just try and ignore it. 

. 

. 

. 

_ "Oh- _ **_Oh Joooohn_ ** _!!!"  _

GOD DAMNIT PAUL. He had a feeling he knew who Paul was thinking about, but he didn't NEED TO HAVE IT CONFIRMED... Oh that did it. He was done. He shot up, grabbed his phone and with a scowl deep enough to darken the slowly rising sun itself, he called Paul, not willing and partially afraid to actually get closer to his room. 

***

_ The next morning...  _

George got up later than usual today. He'd been awake since his roommate so thoughtfully 'shared the love' verbally from down the hallway a few hours ago, but he was reluctant to actually get out of bed, lest he have to SEE Paul. 

He didn't know if he could look at the man. Never in a hundred years did he ever want to know what Paul sounded like in the throes of heat, but well, now he knew and it wasn't a bit of trivia that was of any use to him OR going away any time soon. 

The smell of something good in the kitchen was seeping into the room like some kind of magic spell, cast to try and assuage him and potentially put him in a more hungry mood than an angry one. 

He attempted to fight back against it, but as new smells began to layer on top of one another, it was like the spell was being upgraded on the go. Eventually he simply  _ had _ to get up. Begrudgingly he put on some clothes (more than necessary, really. He didn't want to be anywhere NEAR a state of undress. Too embarrassing)

George opened the door, and at the foot of it was a fat hairy shag rug. Oh, no, wait that's just Martha. 

"Oh, hullo girl, what're you doin inside?" he asked her. She normally was kept outside at the insistence of Paul, who was anxious about her breaking things with her big doggy clumsiness, but George had always insisted  _ 'who cares'...  _

Martha stood on back legs and nearly knocked George over, excited to see him, tail wagging and breath gross and close to his face. 

He hugged her, ruffling her fur, and kissed her head. 

"Paul's sent you up here to butter me up, ain't he?" he asked her conspiratorially, "He's using you, ye know," 

She barked in his face a few times and then leaned up further to try and give him kisses, but he pushed her down, half a smile on his face. Well, it wasn't like  _ Martha  _ was to blame. Of  _ course  _ he wasn't mad at the dog, it didn't mean he was in a better mood. He followed the dog to the kitchen. 

Paul was setting stuff down on the table, which had even been set, and a fresh pot of tea was waiting by some cups. Now, Paul wasn't a kiss ass, but he  _ hated _ it when he'd displeased someone. It was par for the course for him to try and make amends swiftly and gracefully, where possible. He was also not really a good cook. However, it was clear he had done his bloody best; a half burnt omelette of some type with tinned beans reheated from last night, and extra crispy facon (more on George's plate than his own)

George sighed. He'd really been looking forward to being pissed off at Paul. 

"Mornin- OOF" Paul was subtly not making eye contact by being preoccupied with serving up the tea, but then Martha headbutted his butt with her head and made him start, spilling a little tea onto the table mat. 

George snorted. Okay, now he really DID forgive him. 

"Morning. I see we've got a guest for breakfast," he commented as he took a cup and took a seat. 

Martha was next to him, sitting patiently. Her food bowl, which was moved under the table at the moment, was still moist. She'd clearly already eaten, but that probably wasn't gonna stop George from sharing anyway. 

Paul sat down, "Yes, we do. It was chilly out so I let her in for the morning," he explained. Not totally a lie, it definitely was the first thing that came to his mind. 

They both tucked in, in companionable silence, occasionally Martha would be slipped a bit of food, too.

"I uh," Paul started again as George began to finish off his plate, "I hope it's still alright if I have a guest this  _ evening _ ... as well" 

He was staring at his hands, his thumbs tapping together, lip bitten and eyes sad looking. God damn drama queen. 

"Paul, I'm not gonna bloody forbid ye havin' guests over. Just either keep it down, or kick me out for the night," George replied patiently. 

Paul began to redden, but was overall relieved to hear. 

"Note taken... Uh, I'll" he paused and then decided to stop talking before it got weird(er) again. 

***

John finally found his guitar. He'd sat down maybe an hour or two ago to try and tune it, then he ran through some warm up stuff, fighting off the shaking of his hands. God it was stressful thinking about seeing Paul again in person. 

Stuart had come home in the middle of a warm up and was stood by the lounge room doorway, hidden and listening. He had been a bit condescending about this supposed  _ date _ of John's when he'd first heard about him. Honestly though, it's been a week and he still hasn't stopped talking about him (or TO him rather). 

It was affecting the whole unit too; all rubbish cleared, dirty dishes were either washed or just completely thrown away and replaced, laundry was  _ constantly  _ in a state of being done due to how much there was, and John had been actually bathing and shaving properly again. 

The day John walked out of the bathroom with a bare face, Stuart almost had a heart attack. He smiled as he heard John transition into another song. He'd gone from warm ups to actual songs. Was it just some temporary manic high? Would he crash and burn and spend the next few weeks glued to bed again? Who knew? It wasn't up to Stu. He was just gonna be hopeful, but not expect too much. 

Making a bit of noise so as to warn John he was home, he then rounded the corner. John looked up at him, red faced but not putting down the guitar. 

"Remind me why this thing was in  _ your _ room?" he asked him as he sat down with him. 

"You told me to hide it," Stu replied, then smiled softly, "you could have asked me where it was, you know," 

John had completely forgotten such a conversation as that, but glossed over it. Must've been a while ago, or something.

"Ye got more o' my shite crammed up yer ass I should know about?" he asked gruffly. 

Stu snorted, "I'm sworn not to say," he said jokingly hands raised. 

John glared intensely at him through half lidded eyes, then let up with a sad smirk, "I'm gonna be meeting him again tonight," he said. Stu knew who he meant. 

"This date of yours?" he asked and the sheer look of  _ excitement _ and  _ adoration  _ on his face sent a pang right to Stu's chest. 

As nice as it was to see John taking his life and putting it back together, it did deep down irritate Stu. On a subconscious level he felt like  _ he _ could have had the same effect on John, but apparently not. Not like he hadn't been pulling the weight of both of them around here since Cynthia left. Not like it was thanks to Stu that Jonn even  _ had _ a place or even his own kid still. 

But he had to digress. He decided he'd just have to take things as they came, and if John's revival was the work of another man and not him, well, tough. May as well at least show an interest for John's sake. 

"He's gonna have a look at all me songs, and let me have a look at his. Headin' over sometime past 5," he said, then settled more deeply into the sofa to continue with his plucking. 

"Christ... been fuck-ever since I've played, though. Hope he's not...." he trailed off as he began to concentrate. It was one thing for it to be a nice jam session between home made musicians, but Paul's Actual Real Dad was FAMOUS. He just  _ had _ to get it right the first time. 

Stu, unaware of much about Paul's actual life, despite having enough knowledge about him to guess an accurate picture (thanks to John), didn't know why John was fussing so much, but it was clear he'd lost him to the void. He slipped out of the room to go take a nap and wind down. 

"Don't be out too late. Call me if you need a ride," he said before disappearing. John grunted vaguely, and went back to his work. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Martha, whose entrance is one of my favourite things about this chapter, Stu gets development, and y'all get smut. Jam session next chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed Paul's flat to a regular house, but it's like one of those houses where it's two identical houses separated by a fence, with a shared letterbox fixture and one side is like 'street number A' and the other is 'street number B'. SORRY I TOOK SO LONG TOO! I have a lot of plot reworking to do

"Paul?" 

George was ready at the front door to head out. He wasn't keen on sticking around that night just in case last night's solo made a return (as a duet, no less) 

Paul rounded the corner, 

"Mm?" 

"I'm off. You gonna be alright?" he asked. He knew Paul would probably answer  _ 'yes'  _ but he wanted to hear it just for good measure so he could read his body language. He'd been a wreck all day after breakfast. 

Paul nodded, "Oh, uh, yeah. No, don't worry about me, you just tell Rich I said hullo. I'll be fine," 

He licked his lips and stuffed his hands into his pockets awkwardly. George was still measuring him up, stood with one hand on the door handle. 

"Well... You've got me number, aye? Just call if anything happens."

He turned to leave then paused, "Anything I actually  _ should  _ know" he clarified, half serious. 

Paul chuckled and then George closed the door behind him. As soon as he was off, as indicated by the leaving of a car, Paul let out a huge breath. 

He'd been losing his mind as the hours ticked by til John was due and he had begun to (for the 846th time) rethink his life choices. There were things he still didn't know about John and as he spent hours cleaning and rearranging all of his  _ very _ expensive knick-knacks and furniture and bloody every other damn thing in the flat, his mind was playing something in a loop. 

In his mind, on repeat like a meditation CD but worse, one that does the complete opposite of meditation;

_ "He's a crook. He tried to mug you. You're a fool," _

Over and over... Paul had been lulled into a false sense of security by the fact they had so much in common, but even horrible people can have wonderful interests.  _ Hell _ , what if John was lying? Stringing him along? Over a phone who  _ knew  _ what that man could have made up, looked up, totally fudged his way through... 

He took another deep breath. Martha nuzzled his leg and lifted a paw to pet his leg with. He started and looked down, then easing to his knees, he hugged her close. 

"Martha, my dear, what am I going to do" he murmured into her wiry fur. 

** 

John was finally ready to leave after eight different outfits. Stuart had been nearly driven mad by the impromptu fashion show, at one point nearly shouting  _ "Oh just rock up in the nude why don't you,"  _

John settled for a clean black pair of jeans, a striped t-shirt, leather jacket and white Converses. It made him sort of look like he had some sense of style at all (he  _ did _ of course, but alas, food before fashion when you're broke) 

Stuart was starting to get a bit suspicious. John didn't even dress up this nice when he'd had to go to court (he'd been forced to dress John himself), let alone for a date. 

"Not like you're meeting his father or whatever, are you?" he half teased, an edge of concern in his voice. (or jealousy) 

John went pink and glanced at him warily, "Mate if I was meeting his father I'd have to bloody steal  _ your _ clothes..." then, under his breath he added, "God I hope I get to meet his father," 

He snapped himself out of it, slapping his cheeks and taking a deep breath, the sudden change in demeanour distracting Stu from asking him to elaborate. 

"Right-o. I best be on me way then. I'll call if I'm not coming back tonight," John said, nodding to Stu and grabbing his guitar up. 

Stu pressed his lips together and inhaled deeply himself, "I'll hold you to that," he said, and then for John's sake cracked a smile. 

Feeling zero percent better but fine enough to actually step out the door, John vacated the unit and made his way to the street downstairs, where he'd catch the bus. 

**

Paul had given him directions. Odd directions, mind you, but you had to put it down to the guy having to deal with all sorts of weirdos. 

Not like being a composer's son is particularly  _ superstar _ status, most people didn't know what the hell Jim McCartney  _ looked  _ like let alone his son, unless it was maybe press at an awards ceremony (or a slew of producers and managers who most likely remember his resting bitch face more than any other expression) 

But hey, can't blame a guy for being careful anyway. Plus, it wouldn't be the first time he'd invited a stranger over and then days later had four or five people at his door asking for his dad's autograph. It had been many  _ many  _ years since that though, and here's to hoping tonight John was different. 

Here's to hoping that John was here for the lyrics, the music, the bloody  _ food _ , just... Anything else but  _ that _ . The money... the connections. He had grown both extremely attached and terribly wary of this man, and he didn't know if- GOD DAMNIT WHERE IS HE???? 

Paul had been pacing the hallway for FORTY-FIVE MINUTES now and John was still not there, GOD why had he been so  _ stupid _ and  _ paranoid  _ and given him such  _ weird  _ directions. 

He had half a mind to call the cab he'd scheduled to pick John up at the town centre and give him a piece of his mind-

_ *Ding* _

He swivelled on the spot and stared at the door with bug eyes. Oh  _ shit _ it must be him. He straightened up and got a grip as best he could. Martha was already at the door barking and pawing at it, tail wagging dangerously close to a vase-turned-umbrella-holder. 

Striding over, Paul moved Martha with his leg and then opened the door.  _ 'Oh my god,'  _ he thought, closing his eyes. His hands were sweating now, his heart and stomach raging civil war against one another in a fight to be the dominant 'Uncomfortable Bodily Reaction TM'. 

John must have been experiencing something similar, rubbing his nose and failing to hold back a nervous grin. 

"Uh, hi," he started, "It's uh, me.  _ John _ ." 

God of COURSE he's  _ John _ , what the  _ hell _ , John, shut UP! He cursed internally, but didn't let it show. 

Paul chuckled, "Yeah! I know it's just,"

He looked down, smiling a little, blushing, "You look um...  _ wow _ , you look different," 

John only then realised this was the first time Paul had seen him in better lighting (and much more kempt too). He'd washed his hair, shaved, even got new deoderant. 

"Well, I hope it's an improvement," he said, eyes averted, smirking, "I can always grow me scruff back if you like," 

Paul, not one to take a bit of teasing without dishing out a bit himself added, "Oh, no I was just hoping maybe it'd be longer by now. Y'know, go for the  _ Jesus _ look," 

John threw his head back a little, cackling, "Oh god,  _ hell _ no, it's not bloody 1970" 

Martha, in response to being ignored and the sounds of loud human noises, began to bark and whine, reminding Paul that John should probably have been inside by now. Oops

"Oh! Jeez, come on in," he chuckled, and stepped aside. 

John stepped in and took a look around, minding the  _ huge _ dog as he made his way out of the little foyer. 

Paul's so called  _ 'flat' _ , which was really a regular house connected to another house, in which the landlady lived on the other side of the fence, was maybe three times bigger than his unit; room for  _ two  _ sofas, a bar window connecting the lounge / dining area to the kitchen, a few bookshelves, a buffet table and a glass sliding door to the back garden. The place was immaculate, everything (that wasn't George's) matched or complemented one another, and the place smelled faintly like incense and food. 

"Please, make yourself at home, have a seat, I'll bring out the food," Paul clapped his hands together, startling John a little 

"Oop! Sorry," Paul grinned sheepishly, and then made his way around the open doorway to the kitchen. John sat down carefully on the less nice sofa, utilising the out of place woven blanket draped across it. He set down his guitar case and looked at the coffee table.

Paul rounded the corner again, setting the food down on the dining table, when he noticed there wasn't a John at said table. For a split  _ millisecond  _ he panicked that maybe John had gone. He'd gone off to ransack some room, made off with something, run out into the night.. 

_ Oh _ , no he's just on George's sofa. So indented and saggy was that sofa, that even someone tall as John nearly disappeared into it, his head only half visible over the back of it. 

"Oh, John, you weren't hungry?" he asked, thanking the heavens that he hadn't gone to the trouble of actually cooking in that case (he'd ordered in, though it had to be reheated since John was late). J ohn turned around, confused...  _ Oh.  _

"Wha- Oh! Oh, no I am... Sorry I just figured we'd..." he made a vague gesture to the coffee table. He'd been so used to eating at one, he'd totally glossed over the fact that a _real_ dining table was right across the room. He shut his mouth, red cheeked and got up to move. Feeling bad, Paul stopped him

"No, no, that's alright, we can eat over there," he said, moving the food over. 

John glanced at him curiously and slowly got back down. Paul was sweating again. He didn't want to make a mess of the place, but his urge (completely ridiculous urge) to please had taken over his senses. That seem to be a recurring theme lately; abandon all thought, give in to the void (John) 

He set down the take out and some forks, two cans of coke soon following. John took one and cracked it open, needing to drink something desperately. 

"It's vegetarian, I hope you don't mind," Paul popped the lid off the recently reheated curry, "rice is in the bag, if you wanted any" 

John only answered with vague hums. Paul  _ did _ sort of strike him as a vegetarian type. He remembered him saying so briefly over text too at some point. Why was it easier to talk in text??? In fact, they didn't talk much more during the meal at all, until John couldn't stand it. 

He set down his food, reached over to Paul, taking his half empty bowl and setting that one down too. Paul froze mid chew, bewildered at whas was going on, but then very hastily swallowed when John was suddenly leaning into him, hand in his hair, lips coming closer. 

John knew this wasn't solving anything aside from to distract from the awkwardness, but perhaps once it subsided they'd be loose enough to speak again, just like they had countless times before. Paul could, in his own mind, understand what John was silently saying, more than happy to comply. 

Kissing him without the scruff was different but nice, he lifted his hand to feel his cheeks, then threaded his fingers into the back of those auburn locks, pulling him closer. John in response pushed him to lie on his back and shifted on top of him, clumsily trying to straddle him. 

"Wait," Paul tried, mindful that they were on George's couch. John wasn't having it though, and silenced him with a deeper, harder kiss. 

Paul was conflicted, because he'd been dreaming of this forever now, but also the couch smelled like George, and was probably dirty, and the dog was inside, and OH GOD yes- John's  _ hand _ was inside his shirt. John pulled away, smirking at the wanton moan he'd elicited from the man below him. 

"You were saying?" he teased. Paul was breathing hard, but through the sheer lust he somehow managed to blurt out in one breath;

" _ This is George's sofa we gotta use the other one _ ," 

John stared blankly at Paul and for a moment it seemed like John was going to get annoyed at Paul, but really John was mentally cursing himself because the mere thought of George was enough to turn him off. Of COURSE he'd managed to get frisky on Oscar the Grouch's personal couch. 

"Sorry" Paul winced as John got up to move to the other couch. 

"No, don't be, from what you've told me about George, I'm amazed it doesn't have a no-homo security system or something," he replied in good humour. 

Paul chuckled at the imagery, "Oh i can picture it now, it'd sense how close you're sitting and if you get too close together it launches you up," 

John snorted, "Like an 'eject seat' button in a cartoon" he added. 

They, both now sat on Paul's much nicer couch, continued their half cold food. Conversation began to flow again, and before too long the song books and guitars had come out. They started off by tuning, John commenting on Paul's left handedness with amusement. They went into some stuff they already knew, little songs or bits of songs from bands they'd spoken if. John was deeply impressed with Paul's dexterity and skill. Paul was deeply impressed with how unimpressed John was with his  _ own _ work.

"Hey," he spoke up, trailing off on the chords he'd begun, "We should, uh, maybe crack into them booklets, you reckon?" he gestured to the song books. Two were his, three were John's. 

John had been content just letting Paul serenade him. Paul had subconsciously begun to play something rather mysterious (and French sounding) before trailing off, and he was disappointed that he'd stopped (and remembered the song books) 

"Oh? Err, I mean, I guess" he mumbled, a hand obscuring his mouth a bit, where he had it rested under his chin. 

Paul lit up so earnestly that John knew that there was no turning back now. He'd been fairly certain he was okay with the messy pile of crap he'd brought over, but he was fighting with himself now inside. He wanted to impress, but also didn't want to appear like a suck up. He felt the only way to do that was to be really good, and cool about it, but he hated his own work and was NOT COOL AT ALL. 

So he thought anyway. Paul was oblivious to his inner turmoil, or at least the parts of it that included himself. 

"We can start with mine, if you want, but I really wanna see yours," he confessed, "I'm used to sharing my old junk with new people, anyway, be exciting to see someone else's," 

John smirked at the unintentional suggestiveness of his comment, "Well, technically you've  _ already  _ seen  _ my  _ junk. Showin' yours to others though? My, my, Paulie,  _ that _ how you pay for this pretty place, is it?" he asked, bouncing his eyebrows. 

Paul stopped mid-reach for one of John's booklets and clamped his lips between his teeth, giving a long suffering look at John. 

"I believe you asked me something o'the like when we first  _ met,  _ actually," he bit back fighting a sheepish grin. On the one hand, it was funny, on the other hand... 

_ "He's a crook. He tried to mug you. You're a fool," _

John snorted, brighter than before, and grabbed one of the books himself, feeling a bit more bold now. 

"Alright, alright, here," he handed it to Paul's still outstretched hand, "have a look, do yer worst," then under his breath,  _ "I know I did"  _

Shaking off his bad thoughts, Paul held it close, examining the cover and swirly spine for a moment first. It was stained and faded, the cardboard of the back cover was warped and had scribbled notes (music AND memo type ones), and random monsters and shapes. 

John was holding his breath, but kept his outer composure. Now was not the time to start worrying (no, that was hours ago when THAT had started), now was the time to just  _ let it go... LET IT GOOOO _

_ "Aw, fuck me dead, that bloody song..." _

John winced at the ghostly presence of Queen Elsa in that moment, and prayed Paul would make haste so ANYTHING else could get stuck in his head instead.  _ "Thank fuck Julian can sing well"  _ he mentally added. 

Paul had flipped open the cover finally and had been flipping about for a while. He was endeared by the big sloppy handwriting. No wonder John had three books, it was the  _ size _ not the quantity of words. He then began to grin as he read out some. 

_ "'...sitting in his nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans for nobody... _ ' Nowhere Man, this one called? I like this one, a lot," he said. John chuckled and nodded; 

"I came up with that one because I refused to do anything til I managed to write something," 

Paul laughed, "Been there mate. It's good," He moved on to another book after a few more songs in that one, and John even played two, Paul learning a bit of them as well. 

_ "'... It's getting hard to be someone but it all works out, it doesn't matter much to me',  _ Oh, John I can't tell you how much I feel that, _ "  _

John smirked, shyly, "Well, we've  _ all _ been there,"

***

After a few good hours, another ordered meal (which was dessert) and a dog let outside later (reprimanded for stealing sweets), the two men had gone through all of Paul's and one of John's. 

John was secretly moved and delighted by the softness but maturity of some of Paul's songs. 'Yesterday', and 'I'll Follow The Sun' were such nice tunes it hurt  _ him  _ a bit to hear that Paul had been told they were stereotypical and vapid. John nearly cried when Paul had sung Martha her very own song right to her (shortly before ice-cream theft occurred) 

They were up to the second one of John's books when Paul began to notice some oddities in the lyrics John seemed to favor in this one. The later the dates on the drafts of songs, the more uncomfortable, weird, or on the nose some songs became. 

_ "I'm so lonely... Wanna die..." _

He looked up at John, "Um..." 

John, snapping out of his mental fight to keep Disney tunes at bay (which had come back again no thanks to his blue and white ice-cream), glanced up at him, eyes wide, licking his lips nervously. John noticed he was holding the latest book.

"Oh I was uh, delving into the more artsy, profound shit around that time. Don't mind the harsh tones. There's some softer stuff in the other book if you look" he tried to excuse whatever it was Paul seemed worried about. 

He'd not read that specific book in a while but remembered that it was full of good ones, at least according to Yok- _ Okay  _ well, who cares what  _ that _ snake thought of his work at the time... Whatever, let Paul be the judge.  _ He  _ was the professional (wasn't he? Oh, just shut up John) 

Paul was gonna ask John if he was feeling okay, but the date on that specific draft was about a year ago. Maybe it's since passed, whatever it was. John seemed quite sure himself anyway, noting the lyrics were harsher than usual but seeming fine about it. Paul did have to hand it to him, it was quite profound as he said. He decided to keep looking through this one for now. 

He went to slip open the other book after complimenting  _ 'Because'  _ and trying out a bit of  _ 'Imagine'  _ on the piano (which was not too far from the couch). John seemed a bit cagey about the inspiration for these ones, unlike other songs prior, mostly just stating they were poems he'd written with 'an ex'. 

Paul had decided he didn't like that atmosphere too much and so, he flipped open the other book in the hopes of lifting the mood again. When he did he noticed it wasn't a lyrics book. It was all doodles in crayon... 

"You sure this is the right booklet?" Paul asked, turning a page, on the next page some more doodles followed and the rest of the book was much the same. 

"Hmm?" John asked, and then a folded up paper slipped out of a random page. John noticed immediately what had happened and suddenly went to grab that booklet, but Paul had already turned over the fallen paper to see it was a grainy polaroid of John and a small child, another person's hands around the child but her face obscured by a big hat, facing away from the camera and at the child instead. The woman was folded out of the photo, but not cut out. It was only a few seconds before there was a sinking feeling in Paul's gut. 

John, notebook in his hands now, hastily grabbed the polaroid but in doing so caused the photo to split in two, Paul still having been holding it. The worn fibres of the folded part came off nearly clean and Paul dropped the small sliver with the woman in it like it was on fire. 

"John, I," he began to apologise, but John, stuff all in his hands, face white as a sheet just made a beeline for the door, clearly panicking. 

Fuck fuck FUCK  _ fuck FUCK.  _ How the hell did he manage to mix up Julian's scrapbook with his own lyrics book??? Why did Julian have that photo in there??? What did Paul  _ think  _ of him now? 

A hundred disasters piled up in his mind, thoughts of thoughts... worried thoughts about the crazy, or worse, ACCURATE, conclusions Paul might come to. 

Paul indeed had a lot running through his mind, but the man running towards his  _ door _ was the only thing that mattered. Paul made use of his height and experience with the house's layout to cut off John before he got to the door 

" _ STOP, please"  _ he held out his hands, stepping from side to side as John tried to get around him. John, in his embarrassed rage knocked over some things off the mounted shelf on the hall's wall, in the hopes it'd intimidate Paul and get him to move without having to physically move him, himself. 

Paul's eyes widened as a few books and the  _ thankfully  _ wooden ornament thudded to the floor but didn't break. He wasn't phased though, his fear of John buggering off and never being seen again was so much stronger than caring about what happened to his stuff. 

"Please, John, it's okay, I don't mind, jus-" 

" **_MOVE_ ** " John barked, trying to push past him, angry tears forming around his eyes. 

Paul stood firm, and scowled in response, " **_NO!_ ** " 

John jumped back at the sound of Paul raising his voice. He hadn't expected that, quite used to being unmatched in arguments. He was only taken aback for a moment though and tried to squeeze past Paul, but Paul slid his outstretched arms around John and squeezed him into an embrace 

"No," he stated, shaking physically but firm voiced, " _ Please  _ stay, John," 

"..."

" _ Please  _ don't go, it's okay... Whatever it is, it's okay" he tried to soothe him. Honestly he didn't know if it  _ was _ okay or not. 

He knew John clearly had a lot of darkness in him, and apparently a child too. That much he definitely knew, all the accidental slips about toys, school hours, constant kid show references... Paul winced, but chuckled a little internally as he recalled having called John  _ 'daddy'  _ experimentally last night. Well THAT made more sense now.

But he didn't know the circumstances. He didn't know what was going on  _ with  _ John's darkness or  _ with  _ John's kid. He'd mentioned an ex... He decided to wait for John to say something himself though before jumping to assumptions. 

John was frozen to the spot. It was NOT okay. He knew it was not okay. Paul was too good to be true. It always had been too good. However, here was Paul, begging him not to go. No one ever begged  _ him.  _ It was always the other way around, or a cold  _ 'Fine then. Go.'  _

He let his tears roll out and rigidly returned the embrace. He'd have to explain...  _ a lot.  _ However, he was being given the chance to, and just like every other time he had felt undeserving of Paul... He couldn't help but be selfish and want to keep him anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally the first thing I have written in years! I am not British or educated in laws or anything so forgive that please and thank you!!!


End file.
